


The Mysterious Case of the Missing Watering Can

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gardeners, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is furious when his new neighbour starts to copy all of his carefully-considered botanical choices; but when one of Dean's most prized possessions goes missing in the run-up to the Garden Competition, Cas might prove an unexpected ally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mysterious Case of the Missing Watering Can

Dean Winchester was watering his orchids with a surly expression.

Across the high wooden fence between his own garden and the next, Dean could just make out a head of messy dark hair, dipping in and out of view as his neighbour bent to pick stray weeds out of his flowerbeds – his  _perfect_  flowerbeds, filled with elegant long-stemmed lilies, delicate dancing verbenas, and queenly campanulas crowned with cornflowers. A spray of blossoming buddleia was peering its purple face through the partition, waving its fronds cheerfully. Dean glared at it, and continued to water his orchids.

The tension between Dean and his neighbour of two months was unspoken, but undeniable. Dean planted petunias, and within the day his neighbour’s borders were absolutely littered with matching blooms; he put in foxglove, and before long next door’s beds were full of foxgloves and lupins as well; he decided to set aside a part of his garden for wildflowers, and suddenly the neighbouring garden had a freaking  _pond_ , complete with tiny fountain. Unbelievable.

It wouldn’t matter, of course, if it weren’t for the competition. Sure, Dean was house-proud and resented his ideas being stolen, but he’d let it go if it weren’t for the local garden contest, where the winner got bragging rights over the neighbourhood for the whole of the following year. Dean had won the past two years running, and he wasn’t going to give up his crown without some serious horticultural tussling.

He surveyed his own garden with a critical eye. His flowerbeds were a warm coronation of colour: beaming marigolds were flocked beneath blowsy peach roses and tumbling golden honeysuckle, and the dewdrops were sparkling on their petals in the caramel-cream dawn. Dean crouched, his empty watering can at his side.

“Listen,” he said to his orchids, “I’ve got up early to water you. I’ve fed you all the nutrients under the sun. I’ll even sing to you, if you want, but I hope you like Metallica. Just please, stay alive, guys.”

From across the fence, Dean could have sworn he heard a small chuckle.

 _Yeah, laugh it up, copycat,_ Dean thought furiously, giving the fence his angriest look, as though his glare could smoke right through the wood and set his stupid neighbour’s stupid face on fire.  _He could put it out in his fancy pond, anyway,_ thought Dean uncharitably.

**

That afternoon, Dean stumped over to his garden shed, rubbing his eyes. It had been a long shift at work, and he was glad to be home and back in his garden. He opened the creaky old wooden door, reaching blindly for his watering can.

Nothing. Dean switched on the light; it flickered to life with a low, irritated buzz. There was no sign of the rusty old can.

Dean took a deep, slow breath with his eyes closed, checking his anger. He knew who had done this, of course, and it was just a step too far. Stealing his ideas was one thing, but stealing his personal property? He  _needed_ that watering can, it had been his mother’s.

Dean slammed the door of his shed and barrelled his way through the shrubbery to his front gate. With exaggerated care in case any nosy neighbours were watching, he latched the gate and pushed open the one next door, a black metal affair with whirls and curls of latticed iron.

When he turned to face the garden, he almost gasped. It really was absolutely stunning; the glimpses that he’d got from the other side of the gate and over the fence just didn’t do the place justice. If half the ideas hadn’t been his, he would have wanted to congratulate the guy on an amazing job.

Dean shook himself. The guy had stolen from him, and he was here to fix that. He stomped up to the wooden front door and knocked on it aggressively, ignoring the doorbell. As soon as it opened, Dean said venomously,

“Give me back my watering can, and nobody has to get hurt.”

Dean’s neighbour, dressed in a suit and trenchcoat as though he’d only just got in, looked at him with wide, uncomprehending blue eyes.

“Excuse me? I don’t…”

“Watering can. Big, old, rusty.  _Mine_. I want it back.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen a watering…”

“Save it,” Dean snapped. “You’ve been stealing my ideas since you got here, with your petunias and your foxgloves. And now you’ve stolen my watering can, and I want it  _back_.”

The guy looked at Dean with a kind of dawning horror.

“You’re my neighbour,” he said, more to himself than to Dean. “I’m very sorry, I haven’t seen your watering can. And I’m sorry too about copying your ideas for the flowerbeds. This is my first ever time having a garden, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I bought books, but…” the man lifted one shoulder awkwardly, “but the way you did it was so much better.”

“Oh,” Dean said, realising in one clear moment that he was a terrible person.

“Also,” the guy went on – was he blushing a little now? Dean felt his stomach flutter and come to rest several feet south of where it was meant to be – “I thought it might be kind of nice if our gardens matched. So I did all of mine in blues, the opposite of your yellows and reds. I didn’t mean to steal anything.”

“Um,” said Dean, feeling about three inches tall.

“And I promise, I haven’t seen your watering can.”

“No, no, I – uh, I believe you. I’m sorry, I totally assumed the wrong thing. I hope I haven’t, uh, offended you?”

The man paused, then smiled slightly.

“Not at all,” he said. “My name’s Castiel.” He stuck out his hand, bright eyes twinkling.

“Dean Winchester,” mumbled Dean. “Look, man, thanks for being so nice. I, uh. I really like what you’ve done here, the agapanthuses look great, and the bluebells. You’ve really made it your own, I love it.”

Castiel looked at Dean with a glowing smile that made Dean’s poor stomach perform yet another flip.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said. “You know, I –” he hesitated. “I just put a pie in the oven. I don’t suppose you’d like to come in?”

Dean gawped at him for a disbelieving second. Castiel was just going to invite him in, after he’d barged into his garden and accused him of watering-can thievery? Surely it was impossible, but the guy was standing there looking hopeful and tired and attractive,  _very_ attractive, so…

“Sure,” said Dean, and was rewarded with a smile brighter than his marigolds.

**

“I mean, the thing is,” Dean was saying later that evening over a bottle of cold beer, sitting comfortably with Castiel on the porch, “the thing is, Cas,  _someone_ took my watering can.”

Cas nearly choked on his drink.

“I forgot that’s why you came,” he said, swallowing around his laughter. “Are you sure you didn’t just misplace it?”

“No way,” Dean replied, shaking his head. “Not a chance. It was my mom’s.”

Cas nodded solemnly.

“We will find it, Dean,” he said, looking out over the garden. The last lazy butterflies were flapping between the blooming plants, their wings like the swishing skirts of elegant damsels.

“Mmm,” Dean agreed, enjoying the ‘we’ part of that statement more than he’d care to admit to himself. Cas was such easy company – they’d talked all evening, moving between light and heavy topics as easily as the butterflies flitted from one flower to the next. “How come we’ve never talked before, Cas?”

“I don’t know,” Cas replied slowly. “I’ve seen you a couple of times, but you looked very busy. And I’ve heard you a couple of times, talking to your flowers, but I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Dean glanced over to meet Cas’ slightly sly grin with a look of unashamed pride.

“It makes ‘em grow better,” Dean said comfortably, settling back on the sofa where they were sitting together.

“Even the Metallica?” Cas asked sceptically.

“ _Especially_ the Metallica,” Dean responded with a grin. “And Blue Oyster Cult. Bit of AC/DC for the petunias. Poison for the roses. They love it.”

Cas shook his head.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said.

“Oh, they’re blooming already. You can’t see from this side of the fence, but – hey, uh, you should come over some time, check them out.” Dean kept looking out over the garden, not even glancing at Cas’ profile. Maybe this was supposed to be just a one-time thing, to smooth things over after their little miscommunication?

Cas smiled to himself, looking down at his hands.

“That would be good, Dean,” he said softly. “That would be excellent.”

**

That night, Dean undressed in his bedroom, throwing his jeans into the laundry basket and pulling on a fresh pair of pyjamas. He went into the en suite and began cleaning his teeth, humming Blue Oyster Cult as he brushed.

Faintly, Dean heard someone else singing, too.

He poked his head out of the bathroom, and the sound got louder. Dean wandered across his bedroom and shifted aside the curtain, peering curiously through the open window of his neighbour’s house.

Dean’s toothbrush dropped to the floor.

There, singing along to  _Burning For You_ on a pair of iPod speakers, half into his pyjamas and with a hairbrush in his hand, was Castiel.

“ _Burn out the day,_ ” Cas sang. “ _Burn out the night. I don’t see no reason to put up a fight._ ”

He couldn’t hear if Cas sang well; it didn’t matter. Dean waited until Cas was fully dressed before flinging open the curtains and whooping, hands in the air.

Cas spun around, looking shocked at first – but that quickly changed to embarrassment. He made to lay down the hairbrush.

“ _Time ain’t on my side,_ ” Dean called. Cas’ hand stilled; a smile started, small and insecure. “ _Time I’ll never know_.”

 _“Burn out the day,_ ” Cas sang back, much quieter than before. His cheeks were bright red. “ _Burn out the night. I’m not the one to tell you what’s wrong or what’s right._ ”

“ _I’ve seen suns that were freezing and lives that were through,_ ” Dean sang, not caring that his voice was rough and off-key.

 _“And I’m burning, I’m burning, I’m burning for you,_ ” they sang together, Dean pointing out to an imaginary crowd, Cas now wearing a beam a mile wide.

Legs apart, tapping one foot, Dean worked the instrumental; air-guitar in hand, he rocked out on his bed as Cas watched, laughing so hard that Dean thought he could see the tears in his eyes. He jumped and fell over and kicked his legs in time with the beat, soft pyjama pants slipping down his ass, just to hear the renewed peal of laughter from next door. When the last chord echoed away, Dean sat up and waved.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas said loud enough for Dean to hear, moving to shut his curtains.

“Rock on, Cas,” Dean called back. When Cas was out of sight, he flopped back onto his pillows. The guy baked amazing pie, knew the words to Blue Oyster Cult, loved his garden…

Dean knew he was in trouble. It was funny how much it felt like walking out into a clear dawn after a long, long night.

Two weeks later, Dean was woken by the sound of gravel spattering against his window at four-thirty in the morning.

He got out of bed – or more accurately, levered his reluctant limbs into a vaguely upright position – and poked his head groggily out of the window.

“Whozair?” he called.

“Dean,” came the answering hiss. “It’s me.”

“Cas?” Dean scrubbed at his face, trying to wake himself up. “What’s happening? Did you leave something here last night?”

Dean wished that sentence meant what it sounded like. In fact, Cas had come over for pizza on the porch, and had left at an entirely respectable hour, with nothing more risqué passing between them than a clap on the shoulder.

“Dean,” Cas replied, “I think I found your watering can.”

“What?” Dean was already backing away from the window, looking for clothes.

“Dean, there’s no time, he’s going to get up soon! Come on, let’s go!”

“But – dude, I’m in my –” Dean started to protest, but in the face of Cas’ earnest expression, he was powerless. “OK, I’m coming. Hang on.”

He ran helter-skelter down the stairs and flung open the door. Cas was standing there with a magnificent case of bedhead, still wearing his own pyjamas.

“It’s that guy, Gabriel, opposite us,” Cas said gleefully. “I saw him watering his garden with it when I got up to get myself a drink.”

“Oh, yeah, Gabriel,” Dean said knowledgeably.

“You’ve never met him, have you?”

“Nah.”

Cas sighed.

“Neither of us are very good at this neighbourly thing,” he said. “Come on. We’ve got to go steal it back.”

Dean nodded, fighting the strange urge to grab Cas’ hand as they ran over the road, ducking behind the laurel hedge that ran around Gabriel’s garden.

“He put it back in the shed,” Cas whispered, his breath creating a faint plume of vapour as he spoke. “I don’t think it’s locked, come on.”

They moved stealthily over the misty lawn, heading for the garden shed. Cas pulled open the door while Dean peeked inside.

“Dude, I got it!” Dean crowed, holding the watering can aloft in triumph.

Inside the house, a light snapped on.

“Crap! Cas, duck!” Dean hissed, pulling Cas down to hide behind a large rhododendron. They lay side-by-side, breathing heavily. Dean could feel himself starting to shake in the morning chill, except for his left side, which was pressed flush against Cas’ body. It felt so bizarrely natural to be so close, and Dean barely tried to stop himself from staring longer than he should at Cas’ profile, his slightly chapped lips, his cornflower eyes.

“Love in the Mist,” Cas said, his voice still low with the morning burr in his throat.

“W-what?” Dean stuttered. Cas inclined his head towards some pretty blue flowers a few feet away.

“Love in the Mist,” he repeated. “They grow like weeds, this whole garden will be covered in them if he’s not careful.”

“Oh. Yeah,” said Dean. “Come on, I think he’s gone back to bed.”

Sure enough, when they emerged cautiously from their neighbour’s shrubbery, there were no signs of life in the house before them. They raced out of the garden, breathing hard, giddy with adrenalin.

“Listen, thanks, Cas,” said Dean, once he’d tucked the watering can safely away in the shed, locked the door and caught his breath.

“It was no problem,” Cas replied easily, the breeze ruffling his hair and baggy pyjama pants. “Dinner later?”

“Sure, but let me cook,” Dean said. “I’ll make your favourite.”

“I love your burgers,” Cas smiled. “See you later, Dean.”

**

The next morning, Dean was woken too early again. It was a Saturday, and he’d planned a long, luxurious lie-in.

“Not now, Cas,” he groaned.

The knocking came again, and this time Dean was awake enough to register that it wasn’t Cas’ knock. Someone else was at the door.

He rolled his way downstairs and flung open the door, to see a slim policeman in uniform standing there. Cas was standing behind him, only half-dressed, his arms folded over his bare chest.

“Am I still dreaming?” Dean wondered aloud, and wished he hadn’t when the policeman frowned and Gabriel appeared from the side of the doorway.

“Morning, honey,” he said with a sharp look in his eyes that belied his grin. “Sorry I’m late back, hope you didn’t wait up.”

Cas darted a brief, confused look at Dean, but seemed to relax when he saw that Dean was equally baffled.

“Can I help you gentlemen with something?” he asked. The policeman was looking forbidding; Dean was mentally listing the things that he could have done wrong, but drawing a blank.

“Yes, sir,” the policeman said. “If you wouldn’t mind opening your shed for us. This man is alleging that you’ve stolen some of his gardening equipment.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but the policeman held up a pacifying hand.

“We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this, sir. Please do as I ask.”

Dean, grumbling and cold, padded out onto the porch and down to the shed in his socks, feeling the early-morning damp seeping into the fabric. What was Gabriel playing at, bringing the police to his house? Cas looked concerned, so Dean shot him a quick grin.  _Don’t worry_ , he tried to say with his eyes.  _I got this_.

The shed door swung open and Gabriel pointed in triumph.

“See! There it is, my watering can!”

Dean gaped.

“That’s mine,” he said stupidly.

“It’s not. Look, there’s my name on it, if you turn it over…” Gabriel seized the can out of Dean’s grasp and flipped it, revealing  _Gabe_ scratched into the metal on the bottom.

“What? Anyone could scrawl their name anywhere they liked, it doesn’t make the thing theirs, this is mine –” Dean protested.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Am I to understand that I’m here over a watering can?” the cop interrupted.

Gabriel had the sense to look abashed.

“Yes,” he said. “It is a very important watering can. This man cannot be allowed to –”

“I’m going home,” the policeman announced firmly. “I suggest you all do the same.” He stomped away. Dean turned to Gabriel. Cas was standing just behind his right shoulder, a comforting presence.

“What the hell, Gabriel? Why would you do that?”

“The  _competition_ ,” Gabriel said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What?”

“The competition, Dean. Don’t tell me you’ve been so wrapped up in pretty-boy here that you’ve forgotten? Judgement Day is three weeks away, and you are  _not_ going to win again. The trophy’s mine this year, even if I have to get you thrown out of the competition for stealing another man’s equipment. Everyone down the street will have seen this happening, Dean. No one’s going to want you to participate any more. You’ll be hearing from the neighbourhood, I’m sure.”

**

It was so much worse than Dean could ever have guessed it might be. Vitriolic letters, prank phone calls; someone even let all the air out of his tyres. A week and a half in, they tore up half the plants in his garden. Dean was just about done.

“I’ve called my brother,” he said to Cas as they sat on his porch. “I’m going to stay with him and Jess for a few weeks. He said he’d be happy to have me.”

“But you’ll come back?” Cas asked, and Dean could hear the tension in his voice as he tried to sound casual.

“I don’t know, Cas,” he said roughly. “They tore up my garden. Over a freakin’ watering can that was mine in the first place. That’s ridiculous. I don’t know if I can come back here, man.”

“But…” Cas began, and let it hang.

“I know,” Dean said quietly. “I know.”

On the morning Dean left to stay with Sam, Cas tucked a flower inside his t-shirt collar.

“Forget-Me-Not,” he said, his tone unreadable, before disappearing back into his house.

Two days before the competition began, Dean got a call from Cas. It was the first time they’d ever spoken on the phone, and Cas sounded nervous.

“Dean? It’s Castiel.”

“Oh, hey, Cas!” Dean allowed Cas’ voice, his presence on the end of the line, to fill him up from top to bottom. “It’s been too long, man. How’s it going?”

“Dean, I think you can come home.”

Dean hesitated for a long time.

“Dean, are you still there?”

“What… what do you mean? Has the suburban army been called off?”

“I – don’t be angry, Dean.”

The pause this time was vaguely threatening.

“Cas, what did you do?”

“I broke into your house and raided your old photo albums,” Cas said, in a tone of false calm.

“You  _what_?”

“I looked through them two nights ago and found one of you and… and your mother, with the watering can,” Cas said softly. “I photocopied it and put it up all over the place. Everyone knows it was yours. Gabriel’s been thrown out of the competition.”

“Cas…” Dean said, unsure what to say.

“Please, Dean, I’m sorry,” Cas said. “I know it was a personal photo, and I shouldn’t have – um, broken into your house. But I couldn’t stand the way people were talking about you, calling you a thief and a liar when you’re a  _good man_ , Dean, it was not fair. And I thought, now that they all know the truth… you could come home.”

Dean let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly.

“… yeah?” demanded Cas, who clearly had not been expecting his plan to work. Dean huffed.

“Yeah, Cas. I’ll come home. But you know,” he added with a bitter little laugh, “I don’t think my garden’s going to win the competition, with half the flowers dead. Want to enter yours?”

“About that,” Cas said, and now Dean could hear a smile in his voice, could picture the way Cas’ mouth was turning up at the corners, deepening the light lines around his eyes. “I have had an idea.”

**

The day of the competition was gorgeous, with the sun beaming down on proceedings from a cloudless sky. Dean and Cas stood outside their houses, awaiting the judge.

“Do you think we should have –”

“No, Cas.”

“But if we could quickly –”

“No. It’s perfect. Really.” Dean turned to Cas with a small smile. “No matter what happens, this has been the best. Working with you through the night like a pair of crazy people, picking the plants, using that mini-bulldozer…”

Cas nodded, his expression serious.

“This has been the best two days of my life,” he said simply. Dean’s eyes widened.

“Cas –”

“Mr Winchester and Mr, um, Novak,” came the voice of Judge Mosely. Cas whirled to face her, leaving Dean staring, perplexed and powerfully, impossibly hopeful, at the back of his head. “I understand this is a joint entry? How is this possible when you live separately?”

“Well, Miss Mosely,” Cas explained, pushing open his garden gate, “you see, we made a few alterations…”

Judge Mosely’s jaw dropped. Dean and Castiel had knocked down the wall between their two gardens completely, and merged them together. The fountain tinkled next to the wildflower garden; all of the petunias and foxgloves bobbed their flowery heads in time with the wind; and the buddleia sprawled happily at the centre, with no restricting fence to hold it back. Red and yellow and blue and purple splashed together, leaving the garden a riot of colour, a mad, anarchic mix of style and scent.

“You knocked down your fence,” Judge Mosely pointed out, a little needlessly, Dean thought.

“Well, I lost some flowers,” he said. “I needed some to make up the difference, and Cas was there to rescue me.”

He directed a glowing look at his best friend, and received a pure sunshine smile in return.

“Well, this is my second-to-last garden,” Judge Mosely said, as she made notes on her clipboard, “but I have to say, it’s looking good for you boys. See you at the ceremony, now.”

She walked away. Cas breathed a sigh of relief.

“She didn’t seem to notice that the rhododendron was slightly off-centre. Or that the pond has a touch of algae. I was reading over her shoulder, and it all seemed –”

“Cas.”

“Yes, Dean?”

“I – I gotta tell you something.”

Cas directed a look at him, so intense that it took Dean’s breath away.

“Okay. Go on, Dean.”

Dean reached into his pocket, and pulled out a single red rose.

“This is for you,” he said, his heart beating hard against his ribs. “Cas, I – I like you a lot. And I would really like it if you would maybe consider thinking about the possibility of… of dating me. I mean, we don’t have to go anywhere special. We could just do what we do already, only… with more making out and stuff? Uh. If you wanted…” Dean broke off. He made a valiant effort at continuing to talk, but it’s difficult to do when you’re being kissed harder and better and sweeter than you ever have in your life before. Cas’ lips felt soft and perfect against his own; Dean smelled lilies and honeysuckle, heard the burble of the fountain and the soft, pleased sounds that Cas made at the back of his throat.

“Of course I want,” Cas breathed, pulling Dean closer in. “Of  _course_ I want.”

**

Exactly three years later, Dean and Cas were sitting up in bed. Propped up on pillows with their noses buried in books, they held hands above the covers, entwined their legs beneath. The sheets were slightly rough, just the way Dean liked them; Cas had chosen the bed itself, a sturdy wooden affair with delicate etching on the headboard.

“S’pose we should get up,” Dean murmured eventually, rubbing his thumb along Cas’ knuckles, pausing at the band of silver on his fourth finger.

“Mmm,” replied Cas, obviously not listening. Dean lifted the hand he was holding to his mouth, and kissed it gently.

“I’m going to make food,” he said softly, pulling on his clothes. He wandered down the stairs, across the hall and through the clear glass walkway that they’d built two years ago to connect their two houses.

“We share a garden, right?” Dean had said. “Seems stupid not to share a house.”

Dean flicked on the iPod, selected a song, and fired up the cooker, flipping a couple of burgers onto the grill.

“ _Burn out the day_ ,” he crooned softly.  _“Burn out the night. I don’t see no reason to put up a fight._ ”

Cas, padding up on silent feet, slipped his arms around Dean’s waist.

“I love you, Dean,” he said, speaking the words with his lips pressed to the back of Dean’s neck, like always.

“ _And I’m burning, I’m burning, I’m burning for you_ ,” Dean sang in reply, pressing a kiss to his husband’s cheek.


End file.
